


Memory

by Rainbow_Foxes



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Buried Alive, Canon Temporary Character Death, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drowning, Gen, Gore, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:49:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23880343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbow_Foxes/pseuds/Rainbow_Foxes
Summary: If there everwasanyone brave enough to ask, he’d say he doesn’t remember. It’s a bold-faced lie, one he wishes was true. It would be so much easier that way; for everything to be lost in the haze of pain that accompanies death and resurrection. But it’s not.He remembers.Please heed the tags, this is not a light fic.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 63





	Memory

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to reiterate that this is fairly graphic, if the tags didn't get that across. I don't skimp on describing the injuries and experiences Jason is going through.

No one has ever asked him what it was like. They’re afraid to, he thinks. Afraid to set him off, maybe, but more afraid of what he’ll say. Everybody wants to know what comes after, but no one really wants to  _ know. _

If there ever  _ was _ anyone brave enough to ask, he’d say he doesn’t remember. It’s a bold-faced lie, one he wishes was true. It would be so much easier that way; for everything to be lost in the haze of pain that accompanies death and resurrection. But it’s not. 

He remembers.

He remembers staring down the barrel of a gun held firm in his mother’s hands and the churning nausea of betrayal. He remembers cold steel warmed by his own blood and “ _ This is going to hurt you a lot more than it does me.” _

He remembers every snap of bone, every dull thunk of metal against flesh. He remembers when the fight left him, when no amount of writhing and squirming and screaming would make it stop. He remembers the cloying scent of nicotine and how she refused to meet his eyes as the blows rained down. He can still feel slick ropes around his wrists, can still taste the heady mix of bile and blood on his tongue, can still feel the sting of sweat and tears in cuts on his face. 

He remembers the scuffle he could hear but didn’t see -

_ “We had a deal!” _

_ “Deals change, sweetheart.” _

\- and the slam of a metal door accompanied by laughter. He remembers the strain in his arms as he looped his bound hands around his legs to the front. He remembers the ache of standing, and the greater ache of falling forward, not even being able to catch himself. He remembers the scrape of concrete on open wounds as he dragged his body over to where  his mother Sheila was bound. He remembers precious time lost untying her while she panicked. He remembers telling her to run, and her trying to carry him with her.

He remembers red numbers counting down. 

_ 5 _

He remembers the locked door. 

_ 4 _

He remembers her crying. 

_ 3 _

He remembers using the last of his strength to tackle her to the ground and shield her body with his.

_ 2 _

He remembers a whispered “I’m sorry.”

_ 1 _

He remembers closing his eyes.

.

.

.

He remembers darkness and the weight of a warehouse on his back. He remembers choking on ash and blood. He remembers knowing that Bruce would still save them. He remembers telling her this. The hollowness of his own breathing is still loud in his ears, the rattle of broken ribs and a collapsed lung still shakes his chest. The snap of his arms as they gave under the weight of the building atop him still echoes. He remembers how things got hazy after that. How breathing was nearly impossible, how blood bubbled up from his lips and he gave one last shaky smile to the woman who killed him.

.

.

.

He remembers a softer darkness and being relieved of his burden. He remembers cool, smooth stone against his bare back and the gentle rasp of a warm washcloth against his skin. He remembers a soft kiss against his forehead and opening his eyes to dim golden light. He remembers long dark hair, familiar eyes, a sad smile, and a crown of asphodels. 

He remembers  _ “Welcome home,”  _ spoken softly, as if the words might shatter him. He remembers them doing just that. Shrieking, body shaking sobs that left his throat raw and his head hurting were met with a gentle embrace and whispered comforts. He cannot say how long it went on for, because time meant nothing there. But when he was done, his tears were wiped from his cheeks and he was given free reign of his new home.

He remembers never-ending fields of flowers. Poppies and lilies, rosemary and rue, marigolds and sunflowers. He remembers a crown of baby’s breath. He remembers walking through ancient cypress forests that stretched so far up as to obscure the sun. He remembers a midnight sky full of moving constellations and warm rainfalls. He remembers a distant island.

_ “What’s over there?” _

_ “You will know if you leave and return to me twice more.” _

He remembers the library carved from an oak tree taller than the cypress forests, and a crystalline lake housing lotuses big enough to lay on. He remembers nights spent reading books that had burned with Alexandria and days diving for pearls in every color of the rainbow. He remembers not wanting to leave. 

_ “Will I ever have to?” _

_ “No, not if you do not wish to.” _

He remembers that being a lie, and the sky darkening in a way he had never seen it before. He remembers how everything stopped - the wind that had been dancing across his skin, the waterfall that fed the lake, the soft hum that he only just realized was there in the first place. He remembers how a gentle voice had raged at an unseen force in an unfamiliar tongue, how familiar eyes had thrown thunderous glares skywards, how careful hands hugged him close. He remembers how a strong form sagged in defeat and pulled back, how ageless hands plucked an asphodel from their crown and pressed it into his own, how cold lips ghosted over his hairline and whispered, _ “We will meet again.” _

.

.

.

He remembers a hollow darkness, and satin-lined walls tight to his body. He remembers pain he hasn’t felt in an eternity wracking his body anew. He remembers the sharp bite of panic as it stole the newly returned breath to his lungs. He remembers screaming -

_ “Bruce!” _

\- and banging his fists against the lid of his walnut prison. He remembers tears blurring his vision and staining the satin beneath him. He remembers opening his hand to find a slightly crushed asphodel in his palm. He remembers how the soft, clean, floral scent calmed him, reminded him of what had happened. He remembers putting the flower in his pocket so he won’t lose it. He remembers taking off his belt, wrapping it around his hand, and hitting the lid with the buckle as hard as he could muster. He remembers doing this until the buckle snaps in two, and using the pieces until there is nothing left. Then his fingers, until his nails rip from the bed. And then he keeps going, tearing his fingertips to the bone until finally, _finally_ the wood gives and he is drowning in grave dirt.

He remembers the taste of it; the salty, earthy taste of things long decomposed to dust. He remembers the feel of the small bits he swallowed working down his throat. He remembers how his ruined fingers fought for purchase in the shifting soil. He remembers finally getting his legs under him and being able to push. He remembers the change from dirt to mud, as he reached the point of saturation. He remembers how it stung his eyes and clogged his nose and ears. He remembers the feel of worms and beetles crawling across his skin, tiny legs and slithering bodies catching in his hair and between his fingers.

He remembers the sweet relief of his hand meeting nothing but air. He remembers the strain on still broken ribs as he hauled himself out of his own grave. He remembers the burn of vomiting up dirt and ash and old blood. He remembers stumbling to his feet, through the cemetery, and then to the road. He remembers headlights, the screech of tires, a blaring horn, and impact.

.

.

.

He doesn’t remember anything for a long time.

.

.

.

He remembers glowing green. He remembers a burning liquid surrounding him, filling him. He remembers synapses reconnecting, thoughts fusing, memories stitching themselves back together. He remembers drowning in fire, and a desperate swim to what he thinks is up - to what he thinks is  _ out. _ He remembers the breaking surface tension, and screaming, and green everywhere. He remembers making it to shore, and throwing up bile and cursed water. He remembers how his eyes burned, and how everything ached. 

He remembers the voices curling in his ear, whispering secrets and warnings. And he remembers every word they said.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy death day, Jason :')  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think, I always enjoy hearing from people.  
> If you want, you can come talk to me at my tumblr [@rainbowfoxes](https://rainbowfoxes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
